"Won't you come out for a walk, mother?" Salome asked her in the afternoon. "It is not nearly so warm to-day. The air would do you good."
But Mrs. Tracy languidly declined. She felt unequal to any exertion. And there was a postal delivery at four o'clock, which might bring a letter from Folkestone.
"Then I will go to my district," said Salome; "I want to see all the people this week, since I shall be away from them for some time to come. Perhaps on the way I shall call at the rectory, and see if the Hayeses have returned. They were expected home on Tuesday."
"Very well, dear," said Mrs. Tracy, as she leaned back in her chair with closed eyes. She was very weary, and her head ached; but worse than languor or physical ache was that heavy sense of depression, which almost amounted to a presentiment of impending trouble. She found it impossible to sew or to read. She could only keep still, and endure.
The afternoon passed slowly on. Presently she lost herself in a doze, from which she was roused by the postman's knock. In a moment, she was up and hastening into the hall to fetch the letter.
It was addressed to herself, and the postmark was Folkestone. She saw that instantly, but saw too that the writing was not Juliet's. Something had happened, then. The presentiment of evil seemed already confirmed, as with trembling hands she tore open the envelope. In utter bewilderment, she read the following words:
"DEAR MRS. TRACY,—We are in a state of mystification here because two letters have arrived addressed to our care for 'Miss Tracy.' At first we could not understand it at all, for we never thought of Juliet till mother fancied she recognised your handwriting on the second letter that came. What does it mean? Has Juliet changed her mind, and is she coming to us after all?
"I suppose she has already left home, since you are sending letters here for her. Indeed it must be so, for our maid, Eliza, who went on Tuesday to spend the afternoon at Dover, astonished us on her return by declaring that she had seen Juliet walking there. So I am hoping every hour that Juliet will either arrive, or send us a line from wherever she is. It will be delightful if she is able to join us. Meanwhile we will take care of the letters.—Believe me, yours affectionately,—
"DORA FELGATE."
The letter dropped from Mrs. Tracy's nerveless fingers. Every vestige of colour had left her face, and her breath came in quick pants. The room seemed to be moving round with her; there was a sound like the sea in her ears as, with benumbed brain, she strove to take in the meaning of this strange, inexplicable letter.
She was dimly conscious of a step crossing the hall, and knew that Salome entered the room and stood beside her.
"Oh, mother!" cried Salome, as she saw her mother's face. "What has happened? Why do you look like that?"